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It's just like that. It's done. It's over.
One second they're roughhousing, playing like something uglier than friends or enemies, that kinda thing where it ain't real fighting but it ain't nice either, the next, Zanka's planting a knee between Jabber's legs and pinning both wrists above his head with one, long, hand.
Man.
Zanka leans forward a little, settling his weight properly. And it's in that the difference becomes real obvious. Jabber ain't weak, no, but he's long and wiry, slippery like a noodle, loose joins and dancer's muscle. Made up of parts that wiggle and flow and move.
Zanka, though? Zanka's denser. All compact strength layered of years of drills and 'do this', 'train that'. It shows in his arms, in his legs, and most certainly-
In the weight he presses down onto Jabber's torso.
No desire to crush. Just presence. Firm and warm and heavy enough that struggling would take effort. If Jabber really wanna fight it, he'd have to commit.
Jabber stops moving, and there are a few seconds of silence between them, just breathing, where he comes to the realization that, man, he's pinned, all easy-like. And Jabber's just blinking up at Zanka's smug little face as if taking in the view.
Then-
A sound bursts out of Jabber's chest. Neither laugh nor protest, nah. Just this raw, startled little shriek of delight.
"Hah!"
Zanka raises an eyebrow as Jabber squirms experimentally under his weight. Shoulders wiggling under the mattress. Only then does it hit him fully, and Jabber's fully giggling in response to it. Breathless and bright and helpless. Little bursts that slip out when he tries to swallow them.
"Man-" Jabber wheezes.
"What?"
Oh, Zanka's playing too. Zanka's playing dumb.
Jabber just wriggles again in response, like a kid who’s just realized they’re being held down for a game. Another giggle sets free.
Zanka at least has the decency to tilt his head. To act all curious. Pretend he doesn't know touch like this tears Jabber apart. Then, he's shifting a bit, just making sure Jabber's wrists sit comfortably in one hand. All secure. Before lifting the other one, trying to be subtle about it.
Jabber narrows his eyes, "dude, do not-"
Zanka drags his fingers lightly across Jabber's ribs, slipping his hand under his top for the skin-on-skin torture he's apparently trained in, like he knows exactly what he's doing.
Jabber loses it. Actual wheezing now, giggles stacking over each other until he’s nearly choking on them.
And then-
Click.
Zanka’s fingers hook the ring of one of Jabber’s nipple piercings and give it a quick, absentminded tug before sliding back down to the tickling.
A shriek-laugh rips out of Jabber, high and startled and delighted all at once. His whole body writhes under Zanka, trying to twist away, but the pin holds. He know it ain't working but he tries. Long legs kicking uselessly against the mattress while laughter pours out of him in bright, uncontrollable bursts.
He tries to buck his hips up to toss Zanka off, but the weight just settles more firmly into him. A comfortable, solid pressure keeping him exactly where he is.
Zanka finally lets up enough to let Jabber catch his breath. Leans in, amused. "Y'real ticklish."
"Pfft, nah I ain't-"
A swipe of the fingers.
Jabber squeals.
Noise spinning out of him in breathless gasps. The sound is so ugly that Zanka actually laughs. Jabber's grinning so wide it hurts, ruins the credibility of any potential plea for relief.
But he slows after a moment, letting his hand rest against Jabber’s side instead of attacking again. Watching for several seconds as Jabber's chest rises and falls rapidly under him, still bubbling up with leftover giggles every few seconds.
"You an asshole," Jabber blows a raspberry, "real unsportsmanlike, man."
And Zanka, cheeky and catty, just smiles-
Runs his fingers across Jabber's ribs again.
Jabber screams laughing.
The roughhousing burns itself out eventually. Energy draining, running dry, into nothing between them. This sudden violence that dissolves into stillness. The room cools into warm dark and murmured, soft noises.
Zanka's half asleep, flat on his back with one arm flung above his head. Breathing slow and deep and loose. Drifting in and out with muscles all slack in this rare stillness Jabber never sees because Zanka don't relax much when he's awake.
But like this? Out cold, halfway there.
He looks…soft.
Jabber, of course, is awake. Curled up against Zanka's side real tight, almost uncomfortably so. One arm hooked across Zanka's stomach, legs tangled, cheek pressed, squished into his ribs.
Jabber presses close to Zanka like he's trying to squish himself into the space between his bones. Probably closer than most people would tolerate. And he likes it like this, for real. Because Zanka's body is warm and solid beneath him, and Jabber fits against in it like a glove. Long limbs and wiry strength settling against bulk.
Zanka barely stirs when Jabber settles close. His hand moves automatically. Slow and sleepy when his fingers drag up the length of Jabber's back, then down again. In some kind of lazy, absent rhythm.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Jabber stares straight ahead. Eyes open and processing. Taking the sensations in. The warmth bleeding through his skin and the slow rise and fall under his cheek.
Maybe that's the thing about safety, it doesn't feel how you think it would when you finally come to taste it. It ain't calm. Ain't simple. It's a pressure in the chest. A nervous system that ain't got nowhere to spend all the energy it usually wastes staying sharp.
Zanka's heart thumbs under Jabber's cheek.
And Jabber presses his face a little more into his chest without quite meaning to.
He makes a small sleepy sound in response, and his hand drifts higher, smoothing between Jabber’s shoulder blades before sliding down again.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
He doesn't say anything, neither of them do. But Jabber's fingers curl into the fabric of Zanka's shirt, unmoving. Just laying there, wedged in Zanka's space like he's trying to fuse their bodies tendons first. And it's then, only then, that the thought creeps in:
This is dangerous.
This. This right here. The weight of Zanka's arm resting against his back. The steady heartbeat. The fact that Zanka still dozes with Jabber, of all people, glued to his side. Like it's normal. Like Jabber belongs there.
It makes Jabber's throat all…itchy. He swallows it before it becomes a problem.
'Cause it’s a weird feeling. Wanting to crawl under somebody’s skin and stay there. Wanting to take all that solid, grounded, unshakable weight Zanka carries in his body and just…
Borrow it.
For a minute.
Or an hour.
However, long Zanka keeps absentmindedly running his hand up and down Jabber’s back like it’s the most natural shit in the world.
It's weird. The contradiction. It makes Jabber think about their fights. About how easily he fits in the hands that punch him.
Zanka's half asleep when he notices something off. Not the dangerous kind, his body would be moving if that where the case. But there's a tension in the body pressed into him. The pressure shifts, and Jabber adjusts in micro-bites every few seconds.
Dark room, same position. Zanka makes a quick, dreary note when he cracks his eyes open. Then, he squints at the top of Jabber's head for a few seconds, voice all rough and gravelly.
"Y'good?"
Jabber tenses, a little.
"Yeah."
His hand slides up Jabber’s back again, absently, but now he’s paying attention. Really focusing on whatever's gotten under Jabber's skin. The muscles under his palm keep twitching.
“Keep movin’ all weird,” Zanka mutters, “breathin’ funny.”
Jabber huffs into Zanka's chest.
"Yeah, I'm tryna hide my hard-on, duh."
A lie, obviously.
The joke lands bright and obvious, same way Jabber always does it when he don’t want nobody pokin’ around in his business. Big noise, big grin, whole damn distraction routine.
Zanka snorts. This guy ain't subtle to save his life. Still, he ain't gonna press. Just exhales, all long, through his nose, while something warm and fond sit's behind his ribs.
"You a fool."
Then his hand slides up the back of Jabber's neck this time, fingers warm and heavy, he leans down and presses a quiet kiss to Jabber’s forehead.
Soft.
Matter-of-fact.
Like it don’t mean nothing special.
…And maybe it don’t.
Maybe it just feels like the right thing to do when somebody’s wound up all tight against your ribs like that.
Regardless, just like that the pattern resumes as Zanka settles back into the pillow.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
"Go t'sleep," Zanka murmurs.
Like Jabber’s brain gonna listen just ’cause he said so
Like that's possible with Zanka treading all over Jabber's defenses, spittin' in the face of his front. Jabber doesn't answer but he does press a fraction closer, processing the softness like a bomb in the hands, and wondering if the warmth will still be there tomorrow.
Zanka keeps his hand moving slow over Jabber’s back, steady as breathing. And figure's Jabber will spit out whatever's on his mind eventually.